No Life Kings
by Senira
Summary: Two hundred years after the falls of Hellsing and Iscariot, Freaks have overrun the world. But the prophesied day of Salvation for mankind has arrived, and now all vampires must choose sides in the impending conflict. Will man or Midian master the earth?
1. Hallelujah

Adiemus wasn't quite enough to drown the wailing of police sirens outside Seras's home, but combined with a mug of steaming AB-, it at least soothed her nerves.

The paisley-print, beige curtains at the windows were drawn. Seras lamented that the glass was only bulletproof, not soundproof, and that even if it was she would still be able to hear the crackling of walkie-talkies, the idle humming of a waiting ambulance and the whirring of the automatic stretcher as it rolled across the uneven, gum speckled New York City sidewalk.

"Seras."

She looked up, her face placid despite the phantom twangs in her long-stilled heart.

"Yes, Nate?"

People's first impression of Nate Cawlson was that he seemed off balance. He had a tapered frame beginning with broad, powerful shoulders and ending in spindly legs. His arms were thick and sculpted, but his hands were long and delicate. Spikes of black hair made his face look harsh and squared until one noticed the baby fat at his cheeks and his doe-like, vaguely Asiatic eyes. Now his mismatched bulk was tensed in the doorframe, and he'd leveled his bleary, fresh-from-a-nap gaze on Seras.

"I went across to have a look. It was a kid, four, maybe five years old. Cops wouldn't say anything of course, but you can tell what got him."

Her eyes closed, and she breathed out through her nose. She sipped blood from the mug she held.

He knitted his bushy eyebrows. "And to think, it happened right in front of the house—!"

Seras listened to the faint buzzing of the ambulance door sliding shut. Metal scraped pavement— they were moving the barriers around the scene, she assumed— and then several cars drove away in quick succession. Someone swore in Egyptian. Horns blared as more barriers were shifted aside. The gathered crowd dispersed in a noisy shuffle of clicking high heels and thick sneakers thumping the pavement.

"They're bold, attacking right before Salvation."

"What?"

"Salvation. It's tomorrow."

She stared at him.

"Salvation! Come on, Seras, you know— day of reckoning for vampires? Foretold by the Prophet Alexander? Been causing traffic jams around St. Patrick's Cathedral for the last week?"

Seras's breath caught. "That's tomorrow?"

Before he could answer she swept the papers from her desk, flipped the hatch on the wood and pressed the button within. The air shuddered, followed by a low whine, and a holographic screen and keypad materialized in front of her.

She navigated to the internet and opened her homepage. It was plastered with images of the aging pope, of people holding candlelit vigils and photographs from the burning of Vatican headquarters. Beneath them in bold blue letters was a heading: Vanquishing the Vampires- The Miracle Man's Waited 200 Years for. And in subtitles, Salvation Day Tomorrow.

"It's been two hundred years…" She trailed off, then took a deep gulp of blood.

Nate's rough, warm hand settled on her shoulder. His voice was gentle. "Were you there?"

"No, no. I wasn't. It's not that. Am I really that old? Has it been that long since—?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. She vaguely registered the nearing thud of Nate's heart as he settled himself on the desktop.

"Do you want to go?" He asked.

"To the ceremony?"

"Mhm."

"I'm not sure."

She chuckled. "I don't think my being there would be in the spirit of things."

He waved the comment away. "Come on, Seras, you've been raving forever about what a lot of bull the whole Salvation thing is. What better way to spite the humans than by showing up?"

"Well, it's certainly tempting."

"Of course it is. That's why we're going."

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think of you as the religious sort, Nate."

"I'm not, but this ought to be quite the spectacle. Worth telling the grandkids about, if I ever had any." He shrugged one shoulder and smiled.

"I suppose there's no harm in it," She said. "Why not?"

"It could be the day you die."

She drained the lees of her drink.

"That day's been a long time coming." She said.

- -

"Charles, are you sure we're going the right way?"

"Yes."

"We turn left on fifty, Charles."

"Thank you, Glenda."

"Don't get snarky with me. It's not my fault you can't follow directions."

"Charles, she's just trying to help."

"I know where I'm going, Laura! Be quiet, both of you, and let me drive!"

"Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Oh for God's sake—"

Greta Fergus shrunk down into her seat. Outside, horns blared as their car inched its way down the street. The noise reminded her of her school band's first few practices, minus the chorus of arguments from the surrounding seats.

"Let's just get there, please." Laura, her mother, said.

"Pay attention to where you're going. It's the next turn!"

Greta had to duck to avoid her grandmother's long umbrella as she rapped it on the seatback. Her father turned with his face red and his eyes wide and quivering.

"I can see the bloody sign! There's cars in front of us, wait!"

"So that's how you talk to your mother in law, huh?"

"How dare you say that to her!"

Greta's mother slapped her husband hard on the arm.

"Laura—"

"Daddy, the light changed."

"Show my mother some respect, it's the first time I've seen her in years."

"And thank God for that! Dealing with you all year is enough!"

Greta looked out the back window. "Daddy, the other cars are honking at us."

"I heard you the first time!" He snapped, and the car lurched forward.

"God, have you gone mad?" Her mother asked, glowering at him.

"Oh, shut up."

Greta winced and leaned into the cushions.

"Head up, Greta, you're mussing your hair." Her grandmother said.

Greta groaned, then caught the look in her grandmother's eyes. She quickly straightened.

They circled the street several times looking for parking. Finally, her father followed a trickle of cars going through a side alley. At the opposite end was an empty lot in the shadow of a dingy sushi restaurant and a condemned apartment building.

"This is where we're parking?" Her grandmother asked.

"Yes," Said her father, and they swerved into the lot, nearly clipping two cars as they maneuvered to an empty spot.

"If we'd gotten here earlier we could've gotten a space in the car rack next to the cathedral."

"We could've gotten here earlier if someone wasn't trying to curl the piano wire they call hair ten minutes before the ceremony's due to begin."

"Are you hearing this, Laura? What did I tell you? He's a disrespectful, miserable little bastard— I warned you about the British!"

"Everyone, get out!" He roared, and threw open the door. Greta quickly followed suit, and she hopped out onto the tire treaded snow.

"Charles, hold her, I don't want her shoes getting dirty. God, is that a diaper? I forgot how filthy this place was."

"See? You should've come back to New York sooner. You're losing touch with your roots." Her grandmother croaked.

Greta's father swung Greta over his shoulder and tromped to the road. Her mother and grandmother trailed behind, grousing and giving her father unkind looks.

From her perch Greta stared up, up and up at the tips of skyscrapers stabbing the grey clouds.

"Papa, they're bigger than Big Ben!" She said.

"Yes dear, I know," He replied.

"And look at how shiny they are! They're all made of metal!"

"That's wonderful. Greta, be quiet. I need to concentrate."

She stuck out her bottom lip and looked down to see what had her father so busy. His hand was jammed in his coat pocket, and she could see the outline of his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the handgun he kept there. They were at the entrance to an alleyway. He peered into it, then, seeming satisfied, disregarded it. Others around them had done the same.

"It's too dark here," Someone murmured, and their companion agreed. Suddenly, Greta wasn't so enchanted with being in the shadow of the towering buildings.

Conversations tapered off into uneasy silence. At some point the people around them had drifted nearer and nearer, until the entire group was traveling in a huddle. More people had their hands stuffed into their jackets, clenching countless guns. Greta resisted the urge to bury herself against her father's shoulders, because experience told her he would drop her if she fidgeted. Her heart pounded with echoes of the same nameless fear that rose to claim her when she lay in bed at night, staring at the shadows in the corners of her room. The feeling melted into overwhelming relief when they finally reached the entrance to the church plaza.

Her father flashed his passport to one of six heavily armed guards standing on either side of the taser barrier separating the side road from the plaza. The guard squinted at them, nodded, then motioned them through a narrow doorway in the middle of the barrier.

Almost as soon as they set foot on the main street, a solid wall of people blocked their path. The air was full of shouting, laughing, coughing, grumbling and cheering, all mixed with the ever-present honking of car horns. The crowd was as varied as the sounds they made- as Greta's father pushed his way through the throng, she saw everyone from grizzled homeless men with skin pink and peeling to women stamping their feet in dangerous looking high-heels and expensive looking jackets.

"Hey, watch where you're going, jackass!" A man shouted as her father shouldered past him. Greta's foot tingled where it had accidentally thumped against the side of the man's head.

"Sorry!" She said.

"Greta, can't you stay out of trouble for a second? Get down!"

He unceremoniously plucked her from his shoulders and deposited her on the ground. He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the center of the crowd. She yelped in pain and turned to look for her mother's support, but both she and her grandmother had disappeared. At the rate her father was going, they were probably still by the barrier.

Eventually she and her father came to a stop. Greta stood on tip toes to try and see what was going on in front, on the stage where the cardinal would be appearing. Of course, given that everyone else in the crowd was about a foot taller than her, the effort proved quite pointless.

The electronic bell carillon in the church tower started to chime noon. The high, tinny sound filled the air around the plaza, and slowly the noise level of the throng dropped. Vaguely, Greta heard the creak of a great door opening, presumably the one to the church. The air several meters above her "popped," and a large holo-screen appeared. A pair of free-floating speakers came from the direction of the stage, and they hovered on either side of the screen.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Began the voice of the unknown announcer, "We are gathered here this afternoon, on the twenty-third of February, in the Year of Our Lord two thousand, two hundred and twenty-five, to celebrate a momentous occasion. It was on this day two hundred years ago that the Prophet Alexander, about to be killed on the ruins of the Old Vatican Headquarters, predicted the arrival of a savior, one who would descend from the heavens and bring an end to the vampires that have plagued us since the destruction of the great Iscariot organization-"

"Bullshit."

Greta turned. Standing to her right was a tallish woman with short blonde hair that was slicked flat against her head. She had on a long, pleated blue dress and matching flat shoes with a small, fur-collared denim jacket- a jacket much too light for snowy weather, Greta thought, but the lady didn't seem to notice the cold at all.

"Seras, you said you'd behave," Her companion hissed. He was about two inches taller than the lady, though Greta couldn't tell if he was actually that height or if it was just his hair. He seemed to be dressed warmer, though she couldn't really tell from where she was standing.

"Just listen to them fawning over him! 'The Prophet Alexander,' hah! They don't know anything about him!"

"Seras, be quiet! People are staring."

"Well I can't help it, you know, I can't stand it when people get their facts wrong on things like this-"

Greta saw her father glaring pointedly at the woman. The woman took no notice but her companion did, and he quickly flashed an apologetic smile and tried unsuccessfully to steer her away from the annoyed listeners. When he realized there was no where else to move to, he instead whispered something into her ear. She snorted and said,

"Oh, alright. I'll try." Then she settled into huffy silence.

"People shouldn't even come to the damn ceremony if they can't respect it- I tell you, we should've gone to Italy if anything, not flown all the way out here just to entertain that old bitch-"

Greta pulled back a little. She didn't want to hear what her father had to say about her grandmother. Then again, it could've been her mother he was talking about, too; the insults were so similar these days, it was hard to tell the difference.

The cardinal had since come up on the screen. He was wearing a green robe with olive leaves pinned to it, and on his head was a high green hat. Both were symbolic of regeneration and peace. The weeks they studied Salvation, at least, Greta had paid attention to in Religion last term.

He undid the locks on the yellowed Bible with one knobby hand, then looked to the crowd.

"Let us join in the Lord's prayer," He said, and the entire square began to mumble the familiar words. When they finished the cardinal crossed himself, then began to address the crowd. His introduction was like the one the announcer had given, except the cardinal used bigger words. Greta lost interest quickly and she started to fidget.

Her gaze returned to the lady and her friend. It was clear that the lady wasn't enjoying herself much. She fancied that the woman might be glaring at the cardinal, but she couldn't see her eyes behind the dark sunglasses she wore.

"Excuse us, excuse me!"

Greta practically leapt onto her mother's legs as she popped from between two people in the crowd with her grandmother trailing behind. Her mother patted her on the back then shooed her away, not that there was anywhere to go. Her father groaned and said something under his breath. Her mother scowled, then started hissing at him, and only the muttering and angry looks of the crowd kept them from fighting again.

"I can't believe today's the day," Her mother whispered excitedly, once she'd regained her composure.

"It's about time those blood-sucking bastards got what was coming to them," Her grandmother wheezed, "Let them burn in hell, all of them. Half-Freaks included."

The man standing next to the lady in blue gave Greta's grandmother a funny look. The woman looked at all four of them as if she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. She did, however, smile at Greta. Greta, unsettled by the unnatural, stiff quality of the woman's smile, neglected to return the gesture.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!

Five shots went off in rapid succession. On the screen, the entire left section of the cardinal's head dissolved into a fine pink mist. The guards on stage went for their guns. People in front started screaming. Three guards fell before they removed their guns from the holsters, the others were better armed and managed to pump four rounds into the Freak who was cheerfully firing into the crowd while flashing them the finger. He cackled, then crumbled to dust.

Those in the square were fleeing en masse. Almost from the first shot then entire front section of the audience had started scrambling for the back, and their force was felt within several moments throughout the entire plaza. Greta cried out as a very large woman tripped over her, knocking them both to the ground and pinning Greta's leg beneath the woman's breasts. Her father yanked her, hard, and he clutched her against his chest as he shouldered his way through the screaming crowd. Greta looked back and saw people running over the woman. She was making awful sounds as they did so, and blood had started to pool beneath her face. Greta shuddered and closed her eyes.

Her father started screaming, "Laura, Laura!" At the top of his lungs. Apparently her mother had gotten tangled in the initial sweep of the crowd; it was impossible to find her again in this, there were too many people, too much chaos. Her father had no choice but to start moving back, screaming for her mother all the way.

Their progress was halted as the thirty or so people ahead of them abruptly wheeled around and slammed into them like a fleet of trucks. Her father swayed dangerously, but somehow managed to regain his footing. Not that it did much good; the crowd behind them was still pressing forward, and now this lot had started running back toward the stage. Then, Greta realized why— machine gun fire sounded very close to them from the direction they'd just been running. They were attacking in groups! The Freaks were everywhere!

Greta's father must've reached the same conclusion, for he made a noise low in his throat. Now that she was listening, Greta heard guns going off everywhere. She didn't know how many were the police, how many were Freaks, how many were regular people trying to defend themselves—it didn't matter, the whole thing was mad. A man in front of her cried out and collapsed while clutching at the blossoming blood patch on his side. She saw the Freak with the gun clearly now, making his way towards them. He raised his gun, smirked, and fired. Greta started screaming, finally, when she felt something warm against her cheek and realized it was her father's blood.

He groaned and toppled backwards, and almost instantly someone kicked her in the chin. Another foot landed on his groin- she heard her father whimper, then someone tripped over them, swore, kicked her in the stomach and kept going. She was wailing now. She saw the gaping hole created by the shot, just below her father's chest. His face was pail and he was drooling blood and spit onto the cement. She buried her face against his warm, sticky stomach and started to cry for him, for her mother, for her grandmother, and God, she didn't want to die.

Five more people ran over her before a hand reached down and plucked her from atop her father's stomach. Greta looked up, terrified, thinking it was one of the Freaks who'd come to devour her or worse- but it was the woman from before, the one in blue. In her other hand was a laser firing machine gun. The woman aimed it at the Freak who'd shot Greta's father. The gun made a sound like a rubber band twanging, and the Freak dissolved. A gust of wind blew the dust in Greta's face. She coughed violently, and when she opened her eyes again she realized that they were moving over the heads of the crowd.

"Wh…what?" She said faintly.

"Nate!" The woman shouted.

The man, her companion, Nate, was beneath them. The woman tossed Greta to him, then yelled, "Take care of her, I'm busy!" She adjusted her arms to hold the cannon properly, then she jumped away.

"Hello little girl," Nate said, and calmly buried a dagger into the forehead of a Freak who was about to lunge at him. The Freak writhed in agony and clutched at the offending object, but Nate removed it and turned his back to avoid being smacked by a dust cloud. He winked at her, then he maneuvered his way through the crowd until they reached the stage.

"Here you go, girl," He said, and practically threw her under the green fabric skirt covering the stage.

"You'll be fine here, kid. Be quiet, be careful, we'll be back for you."

He ran off. What could she do? She curled into a ball and rested her head against a pile of snow. Her grandmother would be furious if she found out. If she was still alive.

She crossed both arms over her face and cried. Outside, the only thing she could hear was gunshots and screams, the wailing of police sirens, the crunch of feet in the snow, and the occasional thump of a body hitting the stage.

"Mommy, daddy where are you?" She whimpered.


	2. Flocking Instinct

"—Can't take her. There's way too much shit going down today, buddy. There's nothing we can do."

Greta cracked open one eye, then shut it again immediately. A fluorescent light was glaring directly into her face. So, she was indoors. Were they back at the hotel? Back from where? Her thoughts tumbled and rolled around in her head, none of them willing to sit still long enough for her to grab hold of them. Her body was uncomfortably warm. She moved her arm and realized why—she was wrapped in a large, stiff blanket. Confused, she turned her head slightly in the direction of the voices and tried to make out what was going on.

Two people in torn, bloody clothes, a man and a woman, were arguing with a policeman behind a desk. A quick look at the various signs and badges on the wall told Greta that she was, in fact, in a police station. But why?

"She's a minor, you've got to take her! Her family was in the attack on the cathedral!" The woman thrust a finger towards Greta. They were talking about her, then. Still, why?

"If they're alive, they'd be in a hospital. Why didn't you take her there first?"

"We tried! St. Vincents, Bellevue— they all told us the same thing. The ERs are swamped, there's no way they could ID all the victims so soon. They told us to come here to try and get a room for her until her parents are found.

Attack on the cathedral? Her family? A thousand images swarmed into Greta's head at once— red snow, the exploding head of the cardinal, blood oozing from her father's mouth, the Freak who'd shot him leering down at her after he'd done it— She sucked in a breath of air and squeezed her eyes shut to fight off the stinging tears behind her lids.

"Lady, I'm telling you there ain't a room left in any ward or orphanage from here to Staten Island. You leave her here, I'm not guaranteeing a thing. They'll probably send her off to New Jersey, and good luck finding her again if that happens. System's worse over there than it is here."

"No. We won't do that."

The speaker was the man— he was the one who'd thrown her under the stage! Nate, that's what his name was.

"Nate, we don't have much choice." Said the woman. "Where else can we take her?"

"You heard what he said, we can't just leave her here! I left the system for a reason, and I doubt things have improved much in the last ten years."

"It's only for a few days!"

"Not if it's what we expect—what happened to them, I mean."

"They'll contact her relatives. Even without a passport she should still be in the fingerprint ID system. It will only take them a week at most."

"A week, hah!" The policeman interjected, "You have any idea how many stiffs they've gotta tag at the hospital morgue? It's one system for the whole city, lady, and you gotta think of the lag this attack's gonna put on it. If the hospital's as packed as you said it is, then you're looking at a two, three weeks at best."

The woman gave the policeman a dark look.

"See, Seras?" Nate said.

Seras. Seras in the blue dress. She was the one with the gun who'd saved her. She'd done something strange after that, but Greta couldn't remember what it was.

"Well what do you want me to _do_, Nate? We can't take her ourselves—"

He slapped his thigh. "That's it! Of course we can!"

"What? Nate, how can we? We aren't…I don't think having a child in our house would be a good idea."

"Hey, we'll deal with it. You can't honestly tell me you want to leave this girl with him, do you?" He jerked his head toward the policeman.

"No, but—Nate, it will be…difficult."

"Seras, come on. It's not like you haven't done this sort of thing before."

"Don't even try and compare your situation to this. You were entirely different, and you know—For God's sake, stop giving me that look! Oh, fine, we'll take the girl."

"Works for me," The policeman said. "Sign this release form and when someone comes looking for her, you'll be the first to know. You said she hasn't got a passport or anything, but at least we know she's not a Freak. When she comes round see if you can get a city, an address, all that stuff. Worse comes to worse, we'll call up what ever embassy she belongs to and get her on a plane home."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Seras muttered as she pressed her thumb on the ID box of the release form screen.

Nate grinned and turned, and for a reason Greta couldn't see, the policeman jerked and reached for his gun.

"Relax," Nate said. "I'm registered." He produced an ID and flashed it to the cop. The latter grunted, but didn't relax.

The policeman looked at the screen. "Hey, you live in that house by the Park, don't you? That's one nice place you got there; me and the wife always talk about it when we walk past."

"Thank you." She said.

His voice sobered. "Well, your information checks out," He said. "But I'm not turning over this kid to one of _them_." He looked pointedly at Nate.

"You're not turning her over to one of them, you're turning her over to me. And even if he was the one applying for the child, I'd love for you to point me to the law that says he can't."

"Laws don't know shit. All I know is, we're the natural part of this world and those—"

Seras leaned forward and whispered something to the policeman. When she drew back he said, "Fine," And stared blankly at a spot on the wall.

"Let's go," She said to Nate.

They both approached Greta. She pulled the blanket around herself tighter and stared at them with wide, glistening eyes.

"Oh, she's awake!" Seras knelt next to her and took her hand. "Hey there, sweetie," She said. "My name's Seras Victoria; this man over here is Nate Cawlson. I don't know if you remember, but we helped you back at the plaza—?"

Greta nodded slowly.

"Oh, good. Well, we're going to take care of you for a little while until the police find your parents. Is that okay?"

Greta looked straight into her eyes. "Are my parents dead?"

Seras seemed taken aback, but she quickly recovered. She shook her head and squeezed Greta's hand gently.

"I don't know, sweetie. We have to see."

"I want my mommy," Greta mumbled.

"I know you do. We'll do our best to find her—what is your name, sweetie?"

"Greta. Greta Fergus." She said.

"Well then, Greta, are you ready to go?"

Greta possessed neither the energy nor the will to move from the bench she was lying on. So, Nate scooped her into his arms and carried her outside, where a sleek navy blue sedan was parked. He put Greta in the back and Seras joined her, leaving him to drive.

The stark beauty of the New York City skyline was lost on Greta. Things were happening too fast. Looking down, she saw that her frilly white dress was caked in dirt and blood. Her stockings were torn, and she'd lost one of her new shoes. There was a Band-Aid over her knee, and now that she'd noticed it, her knee burned in a way that told her she'd scraped it.

"Where are you from? England?"

The speaker was Seras. Greta continued to stare at her feet.

"Yes," She said. "How did you know?"

Seras smiled. "It's the accent. What city?"

"Manchester."

"I used to live in England myself," Said Seras. "But I never went to Manchester. It was always too far from London for my tastes. Is it nice?"

"Uh huh."

"That's good."

A pause. Then:

"Thank you," Greta said.

"What?"

"Thank you for saving me at the church."

"Oh! Oh, you don't have to thank me, I was glad to do it. Had to give 'em the old one-two, as the saying goes."

Greta forced a smile; Seras seemed relieved.

"We'll try and make you comfortable for as long as you stay," She continued. "I promise, you— well."

She hesitated, then said, "I promise we'll do our best to get you home."

Greta perked slightly. "And my parents?"

"We'll see."

"Oh. Alright."

Her brief spike in mood dwindled away. Greta drifted into a fretful sleep.

- - -

"Hey."

Greta whimpered.

"Hey, sweetie. Wake up. We're here."

Greta opened her eyes and stretched as best she could while still being strapped to the seat. Seras came around and opened the door. Greta unbuckled herself and clambered out onto the polished sandstones.

They were in the driveway of a small Tudor manor, complete with ivy scaling the sidewalls and flamboyant architectural details all around. The part of the front yard that hadn't been taken up by the S-curve of the drive had been divided into little patches of flowers. On the far left, a few yards away from the wrought-iron fence separating the house from the sidewalk, was an enormous oak tree. In the shade of it was a stone bench, and Greta was fairly sure she spied a pond before that.

"It's beautiful!" She said.

"Thank you." Said Seras. "I'm glad you like it."

Greta continued to marvel at the grounds. The yards where she lived were nothing more than little strips of grass lined by dying marigolds and poppies. There were too many buildings in Manchester for people to have land this size, and the few that did lived well into the country.

Nate drove the car onto the large rack plate next to the house. He flipped the switch adjacent to the plate and the car sank down into the basement, then doors painted to match the sandstone driveway closed over the hole left in the plate's absence.

He twirled the keys once around his finger, winked at Greta, then thumped up the stairs into the house.

"Come on, Greta. I'll show you around," Seras said.

Greta bowed her head briefly, then quietly followed Seras.

The front hallway of Seras's house was polished mahogany from ceiling to floor. Photos of Seras with a boy a few years older than Greta lined the left wall, eventually giving way to photos of the same boy, much older, at various ceremonies and graduations.

"Mr. Cawlson—"

"Ugh. Nate, please, I hate that name."

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright, don't get upset! Hey, you can call me Mr. Cawlson if it makes you more comfortable."

"No. It's okay. Mr. Nate, are those pictures of you on the wall?"

He looked. "Oh, yeah. Those are from back when I was a kid. And those over there are me in high school and college."

"Oh."

"Greta, do you need anything? Are you hungry, thirsty?" Asked Seras.

"Can I have a glass of water, please?"

"Alright. I'll take you to the kitchen. Nate, go prepare a room for Greta. I need to speak with you when you're done."

"What for?"

Seras gave him a Look, one that Greta had had directed at her many times by her own mother and one that she was certain most people had to obey.

"Yeah, sure." Nate muttered, and he walked down the hall to what Greta assumed to be the living room, then rounded the corner and disappeared.

"It's really dark in here," Greta said, once Seras had shown her to the table.

"What? Oh, yes. We keep the blinds down during the day."

"Why?"

Seras put the water glass down in front of Greta, then she looked towards the ceiling and scratched the top of her ear.

"Well, you know— We're kind of under a bunch of buildings here, so there's not really all that much light."

"But if you opened the blinds, wouldn't that still be better?"

Again, Seras's odd smile crawled onto her lips. "I suppose so. Perhaps I should do that from now on."

Greta sensed that Seras, who didn't seem happy with her to begin with, now liked her even less. She finished her water in guilty silence, and was relieved when Nate returned and announced:

"The room's ready. You done there, Greta? Let's go."

They climbed the stairs to the second story. The second story hallway was shaped like a short, rounded _T_, with the bottom going back into the wall and the top stretching out over the living room like a balcony. Greta's bedroom was the last room at the bottom of the _T_, and it was nearest to, as far as Greta could see, the only open window in the house.

Nate opened the door. "What're you waiting for? Go on in."

Greta stepped into the room. She glanced over it, once, then she gasped with delight and cautiously approached the large, plush bed in the middle of the room. She patted it with her hand and the comforter sank immediately; it was filled with goose feathers. She looked up and saw an armoire taller than she was on the opposite side of the bed. She ran her fingers over the delicate carvings of flowers on its doors, then her attention was drawn by the more reasonably sized vanity on the far wall. Its mirror was only a little taller than she, and on the surface of the table were all kinds of little perfume vials that had been shoved into a pile. She turned to Nate, her eyes wide with anticipation.

"Is this really my room?" She asked.

"Sure thing. Have fun, kid."

Greta squealed and started to clamber onto the bed.

"Ah, wait a minute! Maybe you want to change out of those clothes first?" Then, a little lower, "Please?"

Now Greta remembered the state of her dress. She picked at the furry fringes of her white puff coat and looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's fine. I'll—find you an old T-shirt of mine to wear, just wait here."

He returned three minutes later bearing a dark grey shirt with a smiley face outlined in blue on the front, with the words, _"I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf mutes."_ in a ring around it. The shirt color made his eyes stand out, she thought. They were a light, almost filmy sort of purple grey.

"Um…are you sick, Mr. Nate?" She asked as he handed her the shirt.

"Me? No, why?"

"Your eyes."

"Oh…"

He closed one eye and touched the lid. "It's a…condition. I guess you could say I'm sick, in a way."

He looked sad now, and again Greta regretted having spoken.

"Um, thank you for the shirt." She said, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah. You're welcome."

"Nate, are you done yet? I still need to speak with you!" Seras called from downstairs.

Nate ran out and leaned over the balcony railing.

"Hold on a minute, I'm coming!" He shouted.

He returned to the room, frowning and rubbing his hairline.

"This is going to end badly," He muttered. Then he shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. Hey, Greta, I've got to go. Make yourself comfortable. If you need anything—and I'm not still being chewed out by that one," He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the kitchen, "Just yell down the stairs. I'll be up in a minute."

"Ms. Seras doesn't want me here, does she?"

"Hey now, no one said that. It's just that…she needs her space, sometimes."

"My mom used to say that to me, when she was upset."

"Did she?" He leaned over and patted her head. Greta flinched; his skin was tight and dry and it sounded like paper when he rubbed it over her bountiful brunette curls. He jerked his hand back and the sad expression came over his face once more.

"Give her a few days to get used to you." He said dully. "She'll be fine."

"Mr. Nate?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think my mommy and daddy are okay?"

He sighed. "Honestly kid, I—"

"Nate!"

"Coming, coming!" He yelled. Then, to Greta, "Sorry kid, I've gotta go."

He left, closing the door behind him. Greta shrugged out of her clothes and put them in the laundry hamper next to the door, then she pulled on the shirt he'd given her. She tried to ignore the fact that she was wearing a stranger's clothes, and the fact that she was likely to trip on said clothes because they were about ten sizes too big for her.

She clambered into the bed and looked at the nightstand. An old-fashioned digital clock was there. It flicked, once, and the neon green display now showed four twenty-seven P.M.

Four hours ago they were still in the plaza. Her father was there, her mother and grandmother were on their way, and she was overjoyed to be in the United States for the first time in her life.

She rolled onto her stomach, clutched the pillow and began to sob loudly as the full impact of what had happened that day crashed over her in waves. She wore herself out, finally, and fell asleep, completely missing the argument that was gradually gaining volume downstairs.

- - -

"And what do you think she'll do when she realizes, Nate? Say, 'oh, you're both vampires? How neat!' and throw us a tea party? Oh, yes that's exactly it. 'How many meat chunks would you like with your blood, Mr. Nate, one or two?' "

"She's young." He muttered. "She might understand."

"For God sakes Nate, she just witnessed a Freak-run massacre in which her parents were very likely killed. Do you really think a child who's been through that sort of thing is just going to brush it off and live happily with the same sort of people who caused it?"

"There's always the chance—"

"—That she'll call the police and we'll both be in a hell of a lot of trouble. Our ID's aren't exactly accurate, you know, and we don't need to be doing anything that would give some nosy official a reason to investigate the fact that I have no documented history for the supposed twenty-three years of my life."

"I thought you had some forged? Isn't that how you got into the system in the first place?"

"No, all I had done was the basics. Name, age, residence, etcetera. And in your case, your record was in need of a little cleaning. The files look good on the outside, but if someone broke past the surface, they wouldn't find anything underneath. Nothing that would be good for us, at any rate."

"I can deal with it. You're the one who stands to lose something here." His tone contained no sympathy. Seras sighed, the lines of the impending argument already running through her head.

"Don't start that again, Nate, please. This isn't about that. I do what I do because I have to, because it's in their best interest. Mankind has enough to worry about without knowing there are _real_ vampires running around."

"Even at the expense of your pride?"

"I'm not sacrificing my pride, I'm trying to survive. Let it go. Now, about the girl."

"She's only staying for a few weeks."

"She'll have noticed by then. Besides, what are we going to do with her? I sleep during the day and you don't usually wake up until one. And it's been well over eight years since I've had to cook anything."

"Yeah, you weren't very good at it then, either," Nate muttered.

"Good or not, I hope you were watching, because you're the one who's going to be doing it."

"What?"

"Which means you'll need to go to the grocery store sometime this evening. And the department store. Well, that can probably wait until tomorrow—"

"Department store?"

"To buy clothes for her. You do realize the only thing she has to wear is that dress, don't you?"

"I know! Have you seen that thing? I think it was a wreck before the whole plaza mess. I just didn't think—"

"—That you'd be the one doing the work? Hah! This was your idea, so if she's going to stay you're going to have to provide for her. Good luck with that, Mr. Mom."

"So you're letting her stay?"

"Well I don't have much choice, do I? I'm not going to turn the poor thing out on her ear, but I'm not going to pretend I'm happy about this either. This puts us in real danger, and you know there will be consequences, if it comes to that."

"We just have to get her to trust us," He said. "At least that way, when she does figure it out, it won't be too bad."

"With luck we won't have to wait that long. I'll be checking the status of her family with the police. If the news turns out to be bad, I'll have the hospital get in touch with her relatives. Everything should be fine from there."

"The police said that could take weeks."

"I know. But it's still worth trying."


	3. It's a Small World

As it turned out, the police lied. On Seras's fifth day of insistent asking, the hospital confirmed that the bodies of Laura and Charles Fergus, residents of Manchester, England, had been identified amongst the deceased. They had yet to ID the grandmother, but Seras knew it would only be a matter of time. A woman of that age trying to move through a crowd of nearly 8,000 people while bullets were whizzing around and said crowd was stampeding—well, in short, the odds were astronomical against her survival.

So came the next step— inform the family. The hospital assured Seras they would do so within the next two days, and that Seras would be contacted as soon as one of Greta's relatives called to claim her.

Wonderful, thought Seras. More waiting.

Nate had been smug in pointing out that Greta had yet to uncover their dreaded secret and that in all they'd probably survive for the week or so it would take for Greta's relatives to collect her. But Seras wasn't fooled by Greta's dainty ways or her soft periwinkle eyes. There was a keen mind trying to peek through her cloud of grief, and it worried Seras.

After all, hadn't Greta already given her dubious looks at her responses to her prodding questions? It had taken Seras quite a bit of work to explain why she slept in the basement when there were two perfectly good bedrooms upstairs. And to avoid more comments on the window issue, she'd given Nate permission to raise the blinds during the day. Now she spent most of her time in her second floor study, which she could keep as dark as she liked and where the vague but constant sting of sunlight wouldn't bother her.

She was there now, in fact, tapping her pen against the mahogany desktop while Audrey, "New York's favorite digital newscaster!" cheerfully rattled off the rising death toll from Sunday's attacks, then went live to her British counterpart, Ella, who in equally pleasant tones answered questions about the amateur video of a bomb-strapped suicide sky diver landing in the packed grounds of Westminster Abbey.

"They simply weren't expecting an attack of this kind," Ella chirped. "Though there is a no-fly zone over the Abbey, the planes used for sky diving haven't been manufactured since the Space Renaissance in 2050. It's actually remarkable that the Freaks were able to find one in working condition. Authorities suspect that this latest attack is connected with the No Life Kings group, or the NLK as they are commonly called. Investigations are being launched at the plants of the only two known manufactures of parts for antique airplanes, as police search for leads as to who purchased—"

Seras turned off the TV hologram in disgust. If there was one phrase she never wanted to hear again, it was No Life Kings. As far as she was concerned, the terrorist group was a bunch of upstart Freaks who were ruining a respectable and exclusive name. Besides, she had a more pressing matter to attend to—Greta's aunt had contacted Seras through the hospital and scheduled a phone meeting with her. With luck, the two of them could have Greta's situation sorted by lunchtime.

"Seras. A Miss—Evie Fairbrooks—is on the line. Shall I take her call?"

The phone spoke so suddenly that Seras jumped in her chair. She recovered quickly, glared at the offending piece of technology, then asked:

"Where is she calling from?"

"Miss—Evie Fairbrooks—is calling from –London, England. Shall I take her call?"

"Ah, that will be the aunt. Yes, please take it. Oh, and make it speakerphone."

The video screen clicked on.

Evie Fairbrooks was a woman who appeared to be anywhere from her late fifties to early sixties, a rarity given that most women got full-body skin smoothing surgery at the first hint of a wrinkle. Her face was egg shaped and ended in a small, barely rounded chin. She had a squared off, jutting nose; wide, thin lips surrounded by frown lines, and caramel eyes that were narrowed in perpetual irritation. She reminded Seras of every stereotypical evil librarian she'd ever seen, minus the glasses and the grey hair.

Seras bowed her head in acknowledgement, then said: "Mrs. Fairbrooks, I presume?"

"Yes. You are Seras Victoria, correct? You have custody of my niece."

Seras decided that a librarian wasn't the right description for Mrs. Fairbrooks after all; her voice had the tight, clipped rhythm of a high-strung, high ranking business woman.

"Oh, so you're Greta's aunt? It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fairbrooks, though these are unfortunate circumstances. I'm sorry about your brother and his family."

"Edward and I did not have a relationship, so please save your condolensces."

Seras's mouth drooped open for a second, then she fumbled for a response.

"I…oh, alright—"

"I've called to discuss who will take possession of Greta."

"Yes, of course."

"We don't want her."

"I—what?" She stared at the screen, an uneasy smile working its way onto her face.

"I…I'm sorry, I don't think I…would you mind repeating that for me?"

The corner of Ms. Fairbrook's mouth crooked into a frown.

"I said, 'we don't want her.' No one in the Fairbrooks family is interested in the child."

"Y—you're joking, right? I mean…how could you not… she's your niece!"

"My brother made a decision many years ago to throw his lot in with that American chit. He has severed his ties with us, and we aren't going to come swooping in to clean up his mess now."

"Mess, what mess? She's a little girl!"

"I'm sure she's a wonderful child. A good home will be found for her."

"What, you're making her a ward of the state?"

"That is the logical course of action, yes."

"Forget logic, the girl's your _niece_. And I'm sure she's someone's cousin, someone's granddaughter, someone's…_something_. How could your family refuse to take her? Better yet, how can you presume to speak for your entire family?"

"I am the current head of this family," Mrs. Fairbrooks said. Her voice, which had simply been jarring before, was now approaching a tone that could conjure knives and stab people with them. "There is no one in this family I am not in contact with, and the decision about the girl was unanimous. As for why we refuse to take her, it is not our way to accept strays. My brother married out of class, and he suffered as a result."

"Out of class? It's the 23rd century! Who pays attention to that sort of thing anymore?"

"We do. As I said, the girl will be taken care of. My secretary has already begun making arrangements with the orphanage that will take her."

Seras shook her head. "This is madness. I'm not sending her back if all you're going to do is pawn her off to the state."

"Is that so? From what the hospital said, I was under the impression you were quite eager to be rid of the girl. But if you insist on keeping her, by all means, do so. I will be in contact later to see if you have changed your mind."

Click then dial tone, before Seras could another word in.

It took three minutes for Seras's thoughts to untangle themselves from the writhing, roaring ball they'd formed over the course of the conversation. It took another four minutes for her to mull over each thought, until something in the back of her mind gently hinted that perhaps her very expensive mahogany desk didn't appreciate its edge being squeezed like a sponge. She extracted her splinter-filled palm from the hardwood, frowned at it, and with a flick of her wrist banished all the splinters to the garbage can next to the desk. There was no helping the damage to the wood; she'd have to call someone about it.

The main door slammed, followed by the clomping of two pairs of shoes against the hall rug. Nate laughed and responded to a statement Seras hadn't heard. Greta shrieked her denial and soon both of them were giggling.

A tired smile creaked onto Seras's face. Nate _was_ good with children. It had as much to do with his personality as it did with his unpleasant beginnings. It was a pity that he would never find—

The door opened and Nate's head peeked in. Seras swallowed the rest of her thought and the guilt that accompanied it.

"Well, it sounds like you two had fun." She said as he slipped inside the room.

"Yeah, we did! I took her out to buy a bunch of clothes and stuff. I don't think that kid's got much money at home. You should've seen her eyes bug when she saw the price tag on that Burberry coat I got her."

Seras sighed. "Well, I wanted her to have something— that would last."

"That would last." A nice way of saying hey, Greta, sorry your folks died, but here's a designer coat to cheer you up! Perhaps Seras _had_ lost her sensitivity over her long life. But the slow decay of her humanity was a subject Seras was not willing to confront. Least of all now, when her relationship with Nate, the last anchor she had to the world she'd left behind, balanced on her sympathetic handling of this situation.

Nate licked his lips.

"Speaking of—well, of nothing, really, but have you thought of telling her about her folks yet?"

Ah, yes. Straight to the point. It was what she loved about her little urchin, and the exact reason why she'd forbidden him from talking to Greta about her parent's death. Tact was an art lost on that boy.

"I've thought about it, yes."

"I mean, you said you were going to tell her once you got the stuff with the aunt worked out."

"Yes, I did."

"So…?" He gestured helplessly.

"Her family doesn't want her."

"What?"

"Exactly what I said. I'll spare you the grisly details, but to say that they're a bunch of self-centered prats ought to suffice. I'd sooner give Greta to a pack of lions. At least you know the lions would devour her out of necessity, but her family would do it out of spite."

"Nice analogy. So she's going to be staying with us for a while?"

"In all likelihood," Seras said, but it came out as more of a groan.

"Come on, Seras, give her a chance! She's not terrible, I mean, it's not like she pees the bed or anything."

"It's not that, Nate. A nine-year-old girl should not be living with a bunch of vampires. If you'd talked to me a few decades ago I would've been all for it, but now…I don't think I have the energy anymore."

"You've got plenty of energy! You're just lazy as hell."

"Excuse me?"

"Seras, what have you been doing the last few years, honestly?"

He continued, cutting off her indignant response. "When was the last time you went Freak hunting at night? When was the last time you drank straight from the tap instead of that pre-packaged crap I bring you? When was the last time you—I, I don't know, did some of the cool stuff you did before you found me?"

"My life before you wasn't 'cool', Nate. I was simply passing the time."

"But you were enjoying it. I remember the look on your face the second time you saved me, after I ran away. You loved killing that Freak. Don't try and deny it. I think it's a part of everyone's nature; vampire, Freak, or otherwise."

"Attempting to raise a fifteen-year-old half-Freak who steals your silverware on a weekly basis tends to take the fight out of most people."

He frowned. "I apologized for that, you know."

"Yes. But I still won't let you forget it."

"You're changing the topic."

"Me? You're the one who always—arg!"

They spent fifteen minutes arguing, until the soft creak of the floorboards outside the study door alerted them to the fact that they had an audience. Seras sneered at Nate and threw open the door. Greta yelped and backed off as Seras stormed past her and into the main hall. She snatched her coat and keys from the wall peg and made to leave the house.

"Ms. Seras?" A voice piped from behind her.

"What?"

"Ah…where are you going?"

"Out."

Greta wilted. Seras winced, cursing herself silently, and eased her tone.

"I'll be back in a bit, sweetie. Don't worry."

"Why are you and Mr. Nate fighting?"

"Oh, big people things. It's alright. We do this every so often."

"Are you sure you want to go out? It's getting dark. Isn't it dangerous to be out after dark?"

"Not for me."

She said it without thinking, and she quickly searched Greta's face for any signs of enlightenment. But Greta just stared back at her with eyes that were wide and sad.

"Ms. Seras? Be careful. I don't want you to get hurt."

Seras nodded. "Thanks, hon."

She left.

- -

Ah, an ode to blood banks.

In the Webster's sense of the word, they were storing facilities for blood and plasma intended for medical use. In the street sense, however, they were the ugly babies of drug cartels and old fashioned capitalism. See a need, fill a need. In this case, New York City's seven million some-odd thousand Freaks needed a way to get a blood fix that didn't always involve first degree murder. And what better way to do that than to pinch a few cases of the red stuff from the blood banks' more illustrious namesake and sell it at ridiculous prices for the week or two it took before cops raided the place?

God bless America, Seras thought.

As intended by the owners, it was Seras's sense of smell that led her to Barbraidy's Irish Pub, nestled in a convenient location behind an eight-foot brick wall and a vomit-inducing trail of filth that would deter most casual walkers, dogs, and potentially some of Barbraidy's customers. The only thing announcing the existence of the place was a poster tacked onto a balcony facing the street, with a font size too small for humans to read.

Seras debated walking through the mucky alley and hopping the wall. Then she rolled her eyes, snorted, and solidified in the shadows on the other side of it.

The blood scent on the mantle of the Barbraidy's archway was fresh, less than an hour old. This was how the banks got their business—if word of mouth didn't do the trick, they relied on the feeding frenzy technique to lure every Freak within five miles. And it worked too.

She descended the staircase to the pub entrance and jiggled the door handle. It didn't budge. She checked her watch. Six fifty-five. Even though it was dark out, it was still too early for most Freaks' dinner. But they wouldn't have painted the mantle unless they were ready for customers. Perhaps it was a set-up…?

There was the sound of heavy chains falling and the clink of thick padlocks opening. The door swung inward of its own accord, for, now that Seras looked at it, the entrance was in serious disrepair. There was no shortage of abandoned places to establish a blood bank, but maintenance was another matter.

A black man filled the doorframe, his pale red eyes reflecting a light that didn't exist.

"You want something?"

Seras pulled a wad of cash from her pocket. She'd stopped at an ATM on the way over.

"Whatever this will buy me." She said.

"You really a Freak? Why your eyes ain't red?"

"Surgery. It's hard to be inconspicuous when you take off your sunglasses and people start running and screaming."

The man grinned, revealing teeth as sharp as pencil points. "I like it when they scream."

"I'm sure you do. Can I get a drink or not?"

The man grunted and moved aside.

The inside of the bank was understandably bleak. Without access to a decorator, a city engineer, an architect, or anything that would make the whole blood bank business even vaguely legal, it was hard to establish ambiance. The only light came from four halogen floor lamps that had been dimmed and set up in various places in the room. Raunchy jazz music flowed from the free-floating speakers that shifted every so often through the air, automatically adjusting their position to obtain the best sound quality. There was a bar to her right, complete with cabinets, shelving and stools, so perhaps the reason for the bank's peculiar name was that at some point it had been a real pub.

At least the place had been cleaned, and drink menus had been made and presented at all seating areas to create the illusion of an actual bar. There was even a bartender; a large man in his forties who Seras could tell right off was human. He was pouring blood from packets with the ease of one who'd been doing the same thing for years. In that way, she supposed he was like Walter. Even in the midst of chaos, Walter could still make a perfect cup of—

No, no, no. Not Hellsing. Hellsing was done. Get a drink, girl, and move on.

She sat on a barstool and paid no attention to the three men arranged around the bar, eyeing her like wolves sizing up a lone sheep. She ordered one _el muerte dulce_— A+ mixed with Belladonna wine and a bit of cherry juice— and nursed it absently until one of the men dared to test her frayed nerves and fragile patience by sitting next to her.

"Good evening, dear lady."

His accent took her by surprise. It was clearly European, but in those few words it seemed to glide through several different countries.

"Hm." She said, without looking up.

"I'm surprised to find such a lovely and elegant woman drinking at a bank. What brings you to this dreary place?"

"The same thing that brings everyone else. I came to drink— alone."

He held up his hands in defense. "Forgive me, madam. I did not mean to intrude. But I could not help approaching another of my kind."

"'Of your kind?'"

She examined him closely and for the first time noticed the bleached mocha of his skin and energy in his eyes that could not have come from a factory. He bore the defined yet modest muscles of young adulthood rather than the bodybuilder figure associated with the majority of modern Freaks. Even his face was soft and youthful, but his cheekbones and the proud jut of his nose placed him in his late teens. This boy—man—did not appeal as a candidate for induction into Freakdom, and that left one option.

The thing that had been niggling at the back of Seras's mind since she entered the pub leapt forward and screamed for attention. She cast out feelers from her long dormant senses, and could've slapped herself for not detecting the heightened power of the man on the adjacent stool.

"Renise Bristow." He flashed pearly fangs and extended a sturdy hand.

"Seras Victoria. I had no idea there were others living here!"

"I did not know, either. I have not been in the city long, however. I arrived Saturday evening, on business."

"Well it's a crappy time for business. The whole city's under lockdown after the attacks; they've even reinstated the semi-mandatory eight o' clock curfew."

"Semi-mandatory?"

"Technically they can't enforce it, but people are terrified enough to get on all fours and bark if they think it will prevent another attack. Not thatanyone wanders around after dark that much, anyway. It's more of astrongreminder than an actual warning."

"People should know better than to be about when the vampires are out."

"I think it's a damn shame when a person can't even walk down their own street without having to worry about being mauled. It's getting to the point where people hardly ever leave their houses after five o' clock, and the businesses shut down at six. I was alive when New York was 'The city that never sleeps,' but it's hard to believe that that slogan ever applied to this place."

She took a deep gulp of blood.

"Anyway," She said, "What business are you here for? If you don't mind me asking."

As she turned to face him she thought his eyebrows were lowered in irritation, but when she blinked his face held nothing but ambivalence. She blamed it on the faulty lighting and listened to him speak.

"I am a…team leader at a company. I will not bore you with the details, but my job demands that I travel frequently with no deference to holidays."

"I've never heard of a—well, one of us working in the human world. Most of the others I've come across have decided to sequester themselves in stuffy mansions for eternity."

"I tried that for a while, but sedentary life has never agreed with me. I am too driven by causes."

"What sorts of causes?"

He twirled the neck of his B+eer between thumb and forefinger. "I am very interested in civil matters, actually. Again, I do not wish to tire you with explanations, but I will say that my interests in combination with my work have sent me across Europe. England, Germany, Scotland, India, Mongolia, Russia— there are few places there I have not lived."

"Is this your first time in the U.S.?"

"No, no. I have been here on several occasions, but it grates on my nerves. I can't stand Americans. Present company excluded, of course," He added quickly.

She waved a hand. "I don't take offense, and I can't blame you. I used to be from London myself, and I thought all the Yankees were a bunch of idiots when I first came over."

"You lived in London? During what year?"

"2000, the same year I was turned. I—"

She stopped. Renise's face had morphed from polite attention to reverent awe. She shied back and said, "What's wrong?"

" London in 2000? You were there when _He_ was around."

"He?"

"Alucard."

And with a single word, Seras's rising mood collapsed.

"Alucard? I've never heard of him."

"Never? He's a legend among our kind—well, not everyone appreciates him the way I do, but the man was—is, is!—incredible. He, he—his powers, they were like a god's."

She bent over her drink and stared into its pinkish depths as though it was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen.

"You don't say? How…interesting."

"He worked for Hellsing during that time. Have you ever—? Well of course you have, they're all over the news when it comes time to honor their demise or whatever crap the media tries to feed the world about them. Anyway, they enslaved him."

"Hm."

"Filthy bunch of pigs."

"Mhm."

"They killed many of our kind. When I think of all the friends I lost—!"

The other Freaks in the bar who had been listening to his brief tirade slurred agreements. Not that any of them were old enough to have had any personal dealings with Hellsing or any of the "Big Three" vampire hunting agencies; still, together with Renise they toasted to the demise of Hellsing and its fellows. Seras curled her lip. This was not the relaxing escape she had been hoping for.

"If you'll excuse me, Renise, I must be going now." She handed forty dollars to the bartender. Renise snatched it from the man and replaced it with his own cash, then returned Seras's to her.

"Please, allow me. Have I done something to offend you, Seras? I'm sorry."

"No, I'm just…tired. I need to get home."

"Home at nine thirty? It's barely hunting hour!"

"I don't hunt. My blood comes from the hospital."

"Oh. Well, then—"

She moved to leave. "Goodnight."

"Wait, take this, please!"

He extended a business card bearing his name in large silver letters and a phone number and address in much smaller print on the bottom. She took it and stuffed it into her wallet.

"Perhaps now was not the best time, but call me again when you are feeling better. I enjoyed our chat, Seras, and I hope we can speak again."

Not likely, she thought, not if it meant an hour of Alucard worship or the re-shredding of Hellsing's good name.

"Sure."

She swept out into the alleyway, leapt to the rooftop of the warehouse across from the bank and crossed three buildings to reach her car. Once inside she floored it, but slowed as she re-entered the city proper. No sense in adding to a miserable evening with a speeding ticket.

She was still too miffed to head home, so she opted for driving around the Manhattan instead. Her Gravita weaved through the maze of New York City streets uninhibited by the traffic and nighttime strollers that had characterized city life once upon a time. There were humans about to be sure, but they were either drunk, overconfident, or a fatal combination of the two. And always hovering just beyond their sight were the beings that would rush forward in a moment and take their lives— Freaks that had grown too fast for bullets, too strong for restraints and too clever and organized to bear even a passing resemblance to their awkward ancestors.

Years ago, before she took in Nate, she would've parked her car by now. She would have pulled on a thick leather coat to disguise the Harbinger Automatic Machine Gun strapped securely across her chest, then she would've slinked through the alleyways until she found what she was looking for—some Freak drunk on Belladona wine pinning a hapless human against the wall and eyeing them with equal parts wanton lust and insatiable hunger. It was so easy, so gratifying, to pull the trigger and watch Freaks dissolve under the ceaseless rage of her gun. She could do it now if…

…If she hadn't forgotten her gun. No, the pistol stored in the dashboard—the one registered weapon she owned—didn't count. And besides, her wanderings had already brought her within a block of Central Park. It would be too much trouble to go home, get her gun, load it and leave again.And she would nevergive Nate that satisfaction.

She parked her car in the driveway rack and entered her house, where she was immediately greeted by the slamming of a door upstairsmingled withshrill screams and Nate's desperate pleadings. Seras closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She removed her coat and hung it on the door peg, then she pried off her shoes and set them down with their fellows in a neat row against the wall. Finally she put her fingers against the front door and closed it loudly. Then she waited.

Seconds later Nate bounded down the stairs into the living room. He stopped halfway across the floor and stared at Seras like a gazelle that had just caught sight of a lion on the open plains. His right eye swelled with the beginnings of a bruise. His muscles bunched and twitched in fight-or-flight mode, but already he was edging away having clearly chosen the latter.

He waggled his fingers at her. "Hey…Seras."

"Nathaniel." She said calmly.

"Er…yeah?"

"I've been gone for two hours. What happened in two hours?"

"Nothing at first…"

"Nathaniel."

"I was refilling your fridge in the basement."

"Yes?"

"And I was bringing the last case down."

"Yes?"

"And Greta called from here and said she needed something."

He paused.

"And?" She prodded.

"And I was going to lock the door, really, but she just ran in there without so much as a knock, and I told her not to come down but she just went right on down the stairs and she saw all the blood, and the coffin, and well—"

Seras spoke like she was issuing a death sentence. "She knows."

"Just a little. She knows that, well, you're the vampire, and that I'm a half-Freak, but you know how kids are and they just don't want to listen to reason and that kind of thing so…"

He trailed off. Seras's face was stern as stone save for the malice crackling behind her purpled eyes.

"I think I'll leave now." Nate said, and he wheeled around and fled through the dining room and out the back door.

The cogs of her brain struggled to grind past the gravity of what had occurred while she was out. And when they couldn't, the part of her she preferred to ignore pierced through her weakened defenses and pointed out that the perfect way to alleviate stress was with dinner, whose frenetic heartbeat called to her from above. She bared her fangs and ran her tongue along their backs and points then shook her head and slapped herself, hard. What the hell was she thinking? There was a fridge full of dinner downstairs, poor substitute that it was for—

Nothing, nothing at all. She didn't have time to deal with this crap. She forced her will onto the bloodlust until it grumbled and subsided. It took more effort than it usually did, but attempts at blocking some of her vampiric traits were rarely easy.

"One can not pick and choose as a nosferatu," He had told her once. "If you do not fully embrace your nature, Police Girl, then you can never expect to join the high ranks of our kind."

Well, what the hell did he know? She'd gotten the hang of shadow walking, flying, transformation and even that horrid summoning bit all by herself without having to run around tearing people's heads off. And furthermore—

Seras realized that she was arguing with herself.

She took several deep breaths to clear her thoughts, then she smoothed out her jeans and mounted the stairs. There was still a terrified little girl cowering up there, and the futures of herself and Nate--provided that Seras let Nate live after this incident-- hinged onSeras's ability to calm her down.Mental tirades against the ghouls of her past could wait.


	4. Woops!

A/N: The blood bank scene in Chapter 3, as well as everything past it, was revised on **5/08/2005**. If you read Chapter 3 prior to this date, please reread the last two scenes so the events in Chapter 4 will make sense to you. Sorry for the inconvenience. Thanks for reading!

- -

"Greta, are you in there? Greta?"

Seras rapped her knuckles lightly on the locked bedroom door. Something behind it whimpered and scooted until it bumped the opposite wall.

"Greta, sweetie, can I talk to you for a moment? I won't hurt you, I promise."

"No, go away!"

"You don't even have to open the door. Just hear what I have to say, all right?"

No response.

Seras took that as a sign to continue, but what _was_ she going to say? When people around her were sniveling, it was usually because she had a very large gun pointed at their head and her finger was squeezing the trigger. The art of gentle coaxing had given way to blunt statement of fact, and this was a situation that required sympathy.

Talking down to Greta wouldn't work. Though she was a child, her current actions showed that she had at least some common sense and luring her out would take effort. What candy-coated phrases would appeal to a nine-year-old without insulting their intellect?

Finally Seras settled upon using the same technique she'd employed with Nate when she'd pulled him off the streets—ultimatum. Sure, kid, you're living in a house with two vampires, but it's either that or I throw you to the mercy of your relatives and let them put you in an London orphanage, where you'd be bounced from home to home like a ping-pong ball until you turned eighteen. Sound fun? Well, it's your choice.

She'd be more tactful than that, of course.

"Greta? Listen. I know you're afraid, but I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

"You're a Freak, you're going to kill me!" Greta shrieked. Something shattered against the door.

Seras winced. "Are you throwing the perfume bottles from the vanity?"

"I'll break them all, I mean it!"

Feel free, thought Seras; she didn't use them anyway. And who knew? Maybe the resulting stink of ten different kinds of perfume commingling would drive Greta out without any work on Seras's part.

"Greta, you don't have to throw things. I'm not trying to get you, I just want to talk."

"I don't talk to Freaks."

"I'm a vampire. There's a difference."

"What difference?"

"Well I'm nicer, for one thing. Would a Freak buy you a designer wardrobe?"

"You're like the witch in Hansel and Gretel; you just wanna butter me up so you can eat me."

Damn. Why'd she have to be clever? Better yet, who did the Brothers Grimm think they were? Oh well. So bribery was out, too. Onto her next trick, then.

"Greta, I don't want to eat you, I just want to be nice to you. What have I done to make you scared of me?"

"You killed my parents!"

"_I_ killed them? Excuse me?" Then, "Wait. How do you know they're dead?"

"Mr. Nate told me. He said that—well, that you protected me when the Freaks attacked my dad. And then he said that they found their bodies…"

She sniffled, then shouted, "You weren't gonna tell me! You were gonna wait until I thought they'd forgotten about me, then I'd trust you and you'd kill me!"

"Greta, that doesn't make sense. If we were going to kill you we could've done it at any point during the last five days. Why would we spend time taking you shopping, buying you food or keeping you entertained if all we wanted was a midnight snack?"

It seemed that Greta didn't have an answer for that. While she mulled it over Seras wondered where she could find a cat o' nine tails and a large can of salt at this hour. She had plans for Nate when he returned, oh yes.

Greta spoke again. She was closer to the door now.

"If you aren't going to eat me, then what are you gonna do with me?"

"We're going to take care of you for as long as it's needed, that's all. None of this…whatever it is you're thinking of. We're really nice people, Nate and I. You've got to trust us."

"You could just be saying that. You could be lying."

"And I could be telling the truth. You're going to have to come out of that room sometime, Greta. There's no food in there, for one."

Greta's fingers closed around the door handle with a soft _plop_.

"Do you eat other people?"

"You mean do I hunt them?"

"Yeah."

"No. I get my blood from the hospital. Nate gets his from meat and such. We don't kill people, Greta."

"But the hospital blood is from people. And isn't that stealing?"

Yes, thought Seras.

"No," Said Seras, "There are, uh…very nice hospital workers who give it to us."

"It's still from people."

"Well, yes…but I can't help that. All I can promise is that I don't kill people, Greta. But I do have to drink their blood."

When Greta spoke again her voice was small and warbled. "Do you promise you won't kill me?"

"I do."

_I do._ Seras told the part of herself that still thrilled at the knowledge that the only thing between her and her best meal in thirty years was a flimsy wooden door.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

Greta's trembling form filled the lower half of the doorway. In her left hand she clutched some ten or twelve perfume vials as though they were grenades. Her right hand was balled into a fist, and despite the terror in her eyes her stance said, "I'm ready."

Seras sucked in her lips and inhaled shakily, struggling not to laugh. A frizzy haired nine-year-old girl in an oversized nightshirt wielding fragrances was the most interesting threat she'd faced her entire life. She choked down the last hints of amusement and affected what she hoped was a comforting grin.

"There, you see? I didn't do a single thing."

Greta nodded but didn't move. Seras sniffed the air then recoiled.

"I'm sorry, kid, but you stink. How many of those things did you throw?"

"Five."

"_Five?_ No wonder! I think you need a shower."

Judging by Greta's expression, she thought so, too. But all she said was, "I'm hungry."

"I'll make you a pizza while you're in the bathroom. Deal?"

"Are you going to poison it?"

"No."

Greta edged past her, back flat against the wall and her eyes never leaving Seras's. She backed around the hall table, fumbled for the bathroom doorknob and darted inside.

Seras entered Greta's bedroom and opened the windows wide. Then she pulled a fresh set of nightclothes from the shelves, went into the hall and knocked on the bathroom door.

"I think you forgot clothes, Greta."

The door opened enough for willow thin hand and wrist to slip through and grab blindly at the air. Seras dropped the clothes into Greta's hand, and the door slammed shut again.

Chuckling, Seras descended the stairs to make good on her promise.

- -

When Nate finally slinked home it was just before eleven. Greta was dozing lightly in her bedroom, having just finished a meal of pizza, lemonade, and a third of her body weight in gummy bears. Apparently Nate had neglected to buy anything vaguely healthy during his trips to the supermarket; that was something Seras would have to rectify in the coming days.

Seras had even deigned to try a few of the sticky confections, only to find that they liked to impale themselves on her fangs. Greta had found it amusing, though she was still wary. It was to be expected, Seras supposed. There was nothing to do but wait for Greta to relax again.

Seras was cleaning up the leftovers from the kitchen table when she heard the _shuh_ sound of the backdoor sliding shut. Nearly silent footsteps padded across the floor towards the kitchen—he was sock-footed, no doubt, since he cared far too much about the wool carpeting to risk soiling it with mucky boots.

Six ailing roses and a box marked Harbinger H.I.L.C. Series 2394e Charge Cartridges edged around the side of the kitchen archway. When no deadly utensils were launched in their direction, they were joined by ink black spiky hair, followed by nervous eyes and a squared nose.

Nate wiggled the roses. "Hey," He said. Then he looked in distress at the petals that had been dislodged by his brief action.

Seras glanced at him and arched an eyebrow. She poured soap in the dishwasher and turned it on. She unlaced her apron and hung it in the pantry, closed the door and decided it was time to formally acknowledge him.

"Hello, Nathaniel."

He set his presents on the freshly cleaned table, and removed them quickly when she hissed at him.

"So, uh…how'd it go? Is she still freaking out, or…?"

"I calmed her down."

"Really? Oh, wow, great! I mean, you're really good with that kind of thing, Seras, 'Seras the Soothsayer' they ought to call you—"

"Be quiet, Nate."

He clamped his lips shut. She circled around him twice, trying not to snicker as sweat beaded on his brow. Finally she stopped in front of him and gripped his chin firmly between her forefinger and thumb, then jerked his head down and moved it from side to side, examining his swollen eye. It had turned purple and black around the edges, but it hadn't spread very far.

"Sit." She said, and pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.

She got a clean dishtowel and emptied onto it the contents of a tray of ice from the freezer. She clamped the towel shut with a rubber band, crossed the floor to the table and dropped it in front of Nate.

"For your eye." She said. "The swelling will go down soon anyway, but this will help."

"Thank you Seras."

"Mhm." She continued to stare at the bruise. "What did she do to you, anyway?"

"Kicked me in the face."

"Hah!"

"Yeah, well, cornering the terrified is never a good way to go. I guess I forgot."

He glared at Seras, who was still snickering. She was really starting to like that girl.

"Hey, Seras?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

Seras picked up the roses and twirled them around, creating a small shower of red-brown petals.

"These are almost dead." She said. She knew Nate was trying not to say anything about the debris she was leaving. It was his job to clean the house—in theory. He preferred being anal-retentive about not getting it dirty in the first place, giving him another few hours a week to slouch around watching T.V. or spend time playing in Virtuaspace. She was never sure whether to call him dedicated or lazy as hell.

"I can't help it, they're out of season! This was all the deli guy had."

She set them down carefully on the table, then turned her attention to the second peace offering.

"You went into the Bronx," She said, tapping the ammunition box. "They don't sell these are the corner store."

He scratched the back of his neck and managed a nervous grin. "My weapons guy called while I was out and said he'd gotten my order. I went to pick it up."

Her usual warning about going into that part of the Bronx hung on the edge of her tongue, but she pulled it back. To slip into one of their old arguments would mean that she'd forgiven him, and even though she was losing her resolve, she wanted to draw out her shunning as long as possible.

"Well, you were busy today. Shopping trips, ammo runs, potentially earning us a visit from the NYC Anti-Freak Force —you must be tuckered out, poor thing."

"Look, Seras, I'm really, _really_ sorry about that. But nothing bad happened, right? I mean, it could have," He amended, catching her expression, "But it was an accident! And she took it well, yeah? No pitchforks, no torches, no calls for our blood spilled on the streets? I know I deserve it, but can't you spare me your awesome wrath just this once?"

"It's amazing how many 'just this once'-s I've granted you since I took you in."

"Is that a yes?"

She sighed. "Fine, Nate, you're forgiven. Now stop making that kicked puppy face and find a vase for your ugly roses."

He beamed at her, then he leapt from his chair and crushed her in a hug.

"Hey, stop, put me down!" She yelped.

He obliged, but not before a few more seconds had passed and he'd given her a gentle squeeze. She smoothed out her wrinkled shirt and glared him, but her annoyance was deflected by his good cheer.

"So what did you say to get her to calm down?" He asked as he filled a vase with water for the roses.

"That we wouldn't eat her. You're supposed to go and promise her the same thing, by the way. Apparently she doesn't trust someone's word on hearsay."

"Smart kid."

"I know. That's what worries me."

"You aren't still thinking she's going to call the cops, are you?"

"Just be careful around her, Nate. Don't give her a reason to be upset with us."

"God, Seras, have you always been this paranoid? You're a vampire for crying out loud! What could all of _them_—" He gestured to indicate the outside world, "Do to _you_?"

"Physically? Nothing. But I've lived here for twenty years, Nate, and I don't feel like relocating or getting a new identity. I suggest you drop the subject now. You're skating on thin ice already, and you don't want to piss me off."

He raised his hands as if to ward her off.

"Fine, fine, I can see you're moody. I'm going to bed."

"I'm moody? After everything that's happened—" She clenched her fists, growled, then took a deep breath.

"Look, just—just check on Greta on the way up. She's in her room."

"Yes ma'am." He saluted and left.

Seras finished in the kitchen and looked at the wall clock—eleven twenty. Most Freaks didn't even wake up until this hour. The only reason she'd risen so early—six o' clock, she believed, only half an hour or so after the sun had set—was because she'd been expecting the call from Greta's aunt.

Damn. She'd forgotten about that. Greta would have to know about the situation with her father's family. Then again, if they were as hostile as they'd claimed to be towards Greta's family, the news might not be surprising. It was something to talk about once Greta was a bit more trusting—or, maybe, while she was still cowering in terror. At least then she'd be able to get all her fear and trembling over with at once.

My. That was cruel, she chided herself, but not with the feeling she'd expected. What was wrong with her?

It was like the Saturday before Salvation Day. She'd been sitting in her study when it had happened, listening to music and enjoying a warm mug of blood. She'd heard the scream, felt the victim's heart slamming and then the abrupt stop—and she hadn't moved. She'd bowed her head, closed her eyes and took another drink.

She hadn't known it was a child. If she'd known, then maybe—

Nate hadn't asked her why she didn't act. Did he think that it had happened too far away for her to detect? Perhaps. But lately he'd been insistent about her picking up her old routine again, returning to the nights when she'd burst into old warehouses and shabby apartments and mow down Freaks as they prepared to indulge in an unwilling meal. Did Nate detect—could he know—

She stopped, and dared not continue the thought. She would not obliterate the vestiges of her humanity by thinking those words.

But the thoughts swam upward from the depths of her mind, breaching the blackness and declaring in mocking tones:

"_I just don't care anymore." _

And the red-cloaked villain leered at her from across the centuries_, with a body clutched in his hands, his teeth stained with cooling life and his approving eyes two lurid pinpoints in the swirling shadow that was his hair…_

No!

Her fist slammed the counter and cracked the marble. She cursed and listened to see if her outburst had drawn any attention. Nate was in the shower judging by the gurgling of the pipes, and Greta's heartbeat hadn't fluttered with the shock of a sudden noise.

No, no one had heard. Now that she thought about it, however, this made for two things that needed repairing—the table in her study, and now the counter. It wasn't the money that bothered her, though the repairs would be ludicrously expensive by default. It was having strangers in her house, poking about in her things, potentially uncovering secrets that—

_Be quiet, Seras, and go to sleep. _

Yes, she'd do that. It was too early for rest but she was suddenly very, very tired. To sleep, perchance, to dream…

It was the dreaming bit that bothered her. They were never very pleasant after she had thoughts like that, but for once the night proved merciful. Her sleep was unmolested and so unusually peaceful that she didn't feel the crackle of magic upstairs or sense the eyes watching her in the dark.

- -

Days passed.

Greta had been staying with them for a little over two weeks now. Though she had been shy and reserved for the first few days after the St. Patrick's incident, she was slowly filling with the vivacity one would expect of a young child. Seras marveled at how quickly Greta swallowed the grief of her parent's death. Shouldn't there be psychological damage of some sort? Most likely yes, but she was at a loss on how to approach the issue. So she sat back and let Nate handle the nuances of childcare and emotional bandaid-ing. Greta seemed to have latched onto him anyway; they had a disturbingly large number of things in common. And he really did enjoy her company.

He liked her so much, in fact, that he'd finally conceded to her repeated requests to go sightseeing—apparently there hadn't been much time for it prior to Salvation day. And while he was being dragged to every inane tourist spot on the Island, she was going grocery shopping. She told Nate that she appreciated his shopping efforts, she really did, but a half pound of bite size Snickers wasn't one of the basic food groups for a growing girl. She didn't know why she'd expected better, though. Nate was a bit of a child himself.

Her list was short and the lines were too. As she'd established early on in their adventure in childrearing, Seras wasn't a cook. Neither was Nate, though having Greta around was inspiring him to test his culinary skills—she didn't want to think about what the repercussions of that would be.

So, save for some salad fixings and a few bags of fruit, nothing in the cart required more than a can opener and a bit of button pushing. Surely not as healthy as a home cooked meal, but better than forcing Greta to choke down the dry, overcooked remains of whatever dish Nate struggled to create.

The cashier asked her if she wanted to pay with cash or credit.

"Credit," Seras said. She pulled out her wallet and flipped through the pockets, looking for the right card.

"Now where did I put that? Ah, here it—oh!"

A tingle ran through her fingers, like a mild electric shock. She recoiled in surprise, not in pain, and the card fell. She bent and retrieved it, frowning, but nothing happened.

"Odd," She said, and she handed the card to the woman. Then she pried open the pocket the card had been sitting in to see if anything in there might have stung her.

She found a stud earring she'd been missing for a month, and a business card. The former she stuck into her pocket; was that what had shocked her? Funny, she didn't think her body carried a charge anymore…

The card she would've returned to its slot had the oddly glinting letters at the top not caught her eye.

Renise Bristow? Ah! The boy—man—from a few nights ago. With all the fuss over Greta she'd forgotten her hours at the bank; now that she tried to focus on them, the details of their conversation and of Renise himself seemed to blur. That night had been… well, she didn't like to think about it.

What she did remember, however, was that their chat had been cut short by her poor temper. That wasn't the glowing impression she'd hoped to make on the first nosferatu she'd met in seventy years.

Then again, her kind wasn't known for being sociable. Maybe he'd overlook her initial grumpiness and agree to a second meeting. It was worth asking, at least.

On the drive home she dialed Renise's number. The phone rang six times before a weary voice mumbled at the other end, "Hello?"

"Oh, hello! Ah, Renise?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"Seras Victoria? I'm the woman you met the other evening. Did I wake you…?"

"No, no." But the grogginess in his voice betrayed him. Seras winced. She was off to a wonderful start.

"I was waiting for your call, actually."

"Right this moment?"

"In general."

"What made you think I was going to call you?"

"I wished it so."

Seras couldn't decide whether to reprimand him or accept the comment in stride. Since she actually _wanted_ him to speak with her again, she chose the latter.

"Why are you awake so early?" He asked. "It is barely past four thirty."

"I had some errands to run while the sun was up. For some reason vendors don't like to stay open until two in the morning."

He chuckled, then yawned. "I understand. But as I was saying before, I assume you have called to take me up on my offer of a second meeting?"

"Oh! Right, yes. That and to apologize for the other night. I…don't recall our conversation, but I know I was a bit short with you then—"

"Do not worry; I could tell you were upset. When would you like to meet? Actually, I am busy tomorrow and Friday, but I have a block of free time on Saturday evening starting at…"

She heard the tapping of buttons on his watch. "…Eleven o' clock. Is that suitable?"

"Uh…yes, yes, it's fine! Eleven o' clock Saturday. And where—"

"Are you familiar with the club Head Rush in Times Square?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You mean the place full of Freaks and druggies?"

"…Yes. There are private rooms two levels above the main floor, and I have rented one for my business meetings. They are not hotel rooms, as you might be thinking. The decor is professional and very elegant."

Oh, she'd never heard _that_ before. Well, she hadn't, but the innuendo was there beneath all the dressing. The sensibilities of age and womanhood voiced their joint disapproval of this arrangement. Bad enough he wanted to meet her in a private room, but that room was in a place of very ill repute. She had no desire to go wading through the hormonal cesspool that was Head Rush. Her urge to kill everyone within would be too strong.

"What do you say, Seras?"

"Isn't there anywhere else?"

"No where that would remain open late enough to suit our schedules."

He had a point. Damn.

"Fine," She said. "Saturday at eleven at Head Rush. Where will I meet you?"

"The bouncer will show you the way up. Tell him you're with Mr. Bristow."

"All right."

"I look forward to seeing you, Seras. Good even—afternoon. My, I really am unused to waking this early."

"I'm sorry about that, really. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Wait. Hadn't _she_ called to schedule a date with _him_? How had he ended up picking the time and place? She replayed the conversation in her mind and couldn't find the point where control had flipped. She shook her head. Oh well. At least her weekend wouldn't be boring.

She arrived home to find two messages on the answering machine. One was from Nate informing her that there was no need to make dinner, since he and Greta were going to dine out. The second was from a representative of the Fairbrooks estate calling to inquire whether or not Seras was ready to turn Greta over. Seras snarled and punched the erase button twice. She was not going to deal with those Fairbrooks people again; if the need for correspondence arose, she would do it through the hospital.

But she would have to talk to them eventually, wouldn't she? Unlike Nate, Greta was not some record less runaway she'd found on the street. Callous bastards or not, the Fairbrooks had legal control of Greta. The only way Seras could keep her was if they gave permission, and while the Fairbrooks had made it clear that they didn't want anything to do with their niece, they might deny Seras custody out of spite.

Wait, custody? What did she want that for? Less than a week ago she'd been plotting how to be rid of the girl, and now she was trying to keep her? Seras couldn't handle another kid. She was too old, too tired, too depressed, too… not as opposed to the idea as she wanted to be. Damn.

But that was a discussion for later. Now it was time to put away the groceries, have dinner and retreat to her coffin before the bags under her eyes and her sun-chaffed skin became permanent features. She had to look good for Saturday, after all. You only got one shot at a second impression.


End file.
